


Cat Tails

by Lilsi



Category: No Fandom, The Bill (TV)
Genre: M/M, cat fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 21:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11723391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilsi/pseuds/Lilsi
Summary: Craig and Luke are cats.





	Cat Tails

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction was once posted at Craiggilmore.co.uk a fan site no longer active, so to preserve this story and others, I am importing them to AO3. I did not want the loss of such a large amount of amazing and wonderful fanfiction, it would be such a waste to fans of Craig Gilmore and Luke Ashton to not have the opportunity to enjoy these stories as i have. Since the site is no longer active i have been unable to contact the creators but if you happen to be them under a new pen name and want the fiction to be removed please send me a note!
> 
> Story written by - Baxter

** Cat Tails **

** By Baxter   **

##  London, 1950                        

Craig lost his temper and shouted, “You did what?” But because he’s a large dark tomcat it came out as a series of hisses and yowls.  

“I bought you a collar!” his owner, Gina, said nicely, bemused at his indignant response. “I thought you’d look handsome in a collar, Craigy. Here, let me…”

But he hissed and scratched, bared his sharp needly teeth and hunched his fine supple back, tail stiff and warning. 

Put that on me, round ears, and I swear you won’t be able to see your Axminster for dead rats, he warned with mean eyes. 

“Oh, have it your own way, you ornery animal.” And she threw the red collar on the table and went off to do some more knitting. 

Sergeant Craig, his full name, is the most feared cat on his block. Everyday he sits on the back fence, regarding his alley, checking for intruders or wayward cats that might bring disrepute to his territory. Other cats are terrified of him; even the occasional ill-informed dog that has wandered in to his alley has been sent off quick smart with a scratched nose and bruised pride. 

When he sits in the sun, and if you can get close enough to see, there are dark shadows of stripes down his lean strong shoulders. His whiskers are straight and white. His interests are gravy beef, sleeping, scaring other cats and listening to the radio at night. 

He is proud of the reputation of his alley, and proud of his ability to keep the other cats in check. After making his feelings known about the collar he sauntered up to the back fence to sit in the cool October air and check for misdemeanours. 

Sarge springs up the fence in one slick leap and settles on the thickest post. He looks down towards the main road – all clear. Up along the fences that hide the small backyards from view – all clear. Then he casts his cool green glance up to the end of the alley and his shackles rise when he sees a young tom casually, idly, washing his face in a small patch of pale sun. 

Hello! The young tom says as Sarge creeps over to him, growling very softly. I’m Lukey, but my cat name is Ash! See? My coat’s all white and grey, like ashes after the fire. Do you live here? 

And the young tom walks over, smiling friendly, still talking and eager to make a new friend. 

You’re really black! he says to Sarge as he approaches. I’ve got my own bed and I live with – OW! What was that for? 

For Sarge has clobbered Lukey a good one, right across the face. 

This is my alley, Sarge tells him low and mean. I live here, and I say who comes in and who doesn’t. Understand? 

But I was just sitting here having a wash! The younger cat says, cowering, looking to see how he might escape without another walloping. 

You don’t impress me, Ash, Sarge tells him. See the stripes on my shoulder? I’m Sarge, and I run this lane. You want to sit in my lane and wash? Well you check with me first. I may say yes, or may not. And only when I have can you come here. Understand? 

Ash cuts his losses and high tails it over the fence closest to him. 

Everyday Sarge sits on his fence watching out for the potential troublemaker. He sees Ash in the distance, over in his own backyard, lying in the sun, or sitting inside and watching through the window. He’s a lovely young tom, born on St Luke’s Day in 1949. He has white socks and a white belly and bright grey and silver stripes down his back and tail. His whiskers are white too. His interests are cream, small rodents, unattended balls of wool and lying on clean washing. 

After a week Ash sits on his own fence, staring over at the reserved Sarge. 

Hi Sarge, he calls out to him. 

Ash, Sarge acknowledges coolly. 

Do you like rats? Ash calls out. 

Sometimes, Sarge says, uninterested. 

I know where we can find some, Ash says pleasantly. Want to come and see? 

Sarge knows every rat haunt within a mile radius but he is keen to see to see what Ash has in mind. He hops down into the lane and walks toward the end of the alley. 

Okay, he says over his shoulder. Take me to your rats. 

Ash leaps off ahead of him and runs towards the old piano warehouse at the end of the lane. 

In here, he says excitedly, keen to have the older cat’s approval. In here! 

There are lots of rats in the warehouse, but Ash’s technique is at best amateurish. 

Here, Sarge says kindly, after Ash has missed four rats, like this. 

He flattens his velvety dark body low against the old concrete floor and quietly makes his way towards a large grandfather rat. Ash is agog, tail straight in the air, as he watches Sarge slink, and then pounce, in one fluid movement. Ash rushes over as soon as the rat is caught, awash with praise and admiration. 

You are so good at this! he says admiringly. 

You can finish him off, Sarge says indulgently. Grab him by the neck and shake him hard, just once. Keep your teeth in him really tight. 

Ash does was he is told and is rewarded by the sharp crack of a neck. 

Now you can take him home to show your round ears, Sarge tells him. 

Ash smiles at him with a full mouth and trots off proudly up the lane, tail erect and whiskers glittering. 

Sarge sits on his fence and waits for the piercing shriek, the sign that Ash’s offering was well received at home. 

They become good friends, Ash and Sarge, wandering the old warehouse together, enjoying the final scraps of late autumn sun, occasionally sharing a fresh raw mouse. 

Sarge gets into the habit of waiting for Ash on the fence every morning, and they spend the day together until one or the other is called home for dinner. 

Goodnight, Ash says politely one night in early December. 

Night, little friend, Sarge answers, about to jump the fence to answer Gina’s call. 

Hey, Ash says, as Sarge is about to go, you’ve got a bit of spider web on your face. 

Where? Sarge stops and rubs his paw across his whiskers. I can feel it, but I can’t see it – 

Ash leans in and gently licks the side of Sarge’s face. Sarge closes his large eyes as the soft pale fur and the rough tongue slip over one side of his sensitive face. 

There, Ash says, purring, just there. 

Sarge doesn’t move, and Ash rubs his face against his again and gently washing the side of his face. 

So, you do like me, Ash says. 

Sarge opens his large eyes and licks the top of Ash’s head just once. 

I like you, he growls very softly. I can’t keep my eyes off you. 

And then he leaps over the fence and runs into his home, his tail straight as a flag pole, announcing his arrival with a chime of purrs and little meows. 

“Well, where have you been?” Gina says, placing a plate of roughly cut gravy beef on the laundry for him. “And look at you! You’re practically grinning!” She looks at Sarge for a minute and he looks straight back at her for just a second, his eyes bright and clear. 

Later that night he sits in his basket, listening to the radio and the reassuring sound of clicking knitting needles, tempered with the occasional clink of the whisky decanter. 

Gina looks at him again, dozing in his basket, purring loudly. 

“You look like the cat that got the cream, for sure,” she says to him as she tops up her glass. 

` **[30 Minute Challenge Index](http://web.archive.org/web/20070124002752/http:/www.craiggilmore.co.uk:80/30min/30minchallindex2.htm)** `

 


End file.
